“Brevity is the soul of wit.” – Shakespeare

“Carnal apple, Woman filled…” Damn it St. Neruda, I am alone in the dark, dripping with sweat, losing my mind. It is not the moon that is burning but a visage, a nymphic vision that by the vicissitudes of fate, exists vicariously in the spirituality of your words. “Love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air…”

Reaching through stygian skies, to touch an ethereal enchantress whose closest sobriquet is holy fire. I look at my cross, my imagined crime, then I look away lest order dies. Nymphet eyes, nymphet smile, Delphic guile in the midst of change; Placed on pedestal, possessive and possessed, it’s like she never had wings, yet I fly on a singular dream, feeling alive. Ravishing, rapturous, fire setting my blood on blast, “Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness….”And SHE IS FIRE.

My eyes close, vision replaced. What should have been dark is light. That unsatiated hunger, perdition’s aperture. Bubblegum marble, cosmic leggings – purples, reds, pinks, blues, sable eternity. The colors of pleasure, the colors of pain, the shades of sin, the stardust of Aristophanes’ unity.

The silken silhouette of her burning pubis, yearning mound, bulbs of sweet grass, within in reach. Watching me with primal knowing, her hips rose playfully, before rolling over, for another nubile display, the imaginings of a biblical virgin bride, devilish, beautifully dirty, beautifully awry. “Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,”

There is a feminal way, a slight wiggle, a curvaceous change, in which reality disintegrates, brick by brick, mile by mile. Her ample, taunt, supple ass stretching color to the brink of clarity. The open back of her shirt, shimmering skin, skin so fair, so faultless, so kissable, “your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages…, transformed by delight” And I am nothing more than a Pavlovian pup trying not to salivate, but the bell is an unceasing alarm, my sleeping shadow awakening in agony. Twisting, bending, breaking, silently shattering, unnoticeable to all but au natural eyes of tragedy, hers caged mine. Feeling under-dressed, soul exposed, her archaic smile slipped inside…

Ash and ember clung to her form, while I smoldered, trapped in glass. She stood so close, not wanting to talk, not knowing what to say. Just staring, thinking, cultivating concupiscence, curiouser and curiouser, shaking with fear, bursting with flame. Beneath the presumption of innocence, the fallacy of youth, was the devouring wolf-heart of a tender, predatory goddess. Her quickening breath smelled like daises after fresh rain, the shine of her gloss blew through me and I looked away.

I watched her change, haze to goddess, one I can never taste, one I can never have. Dripping with sweat, soaking stolen vestures, alone in the dark, the abyss stares back. So far away, “a nocturnal carnation, to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.”

I burn in loneliness, I burn in frustration, I scream in nocturnal, fostered rage, because there is no alternative for the possibility of the unreal, there is nothing more mythic than a living, breathing, magnanimous monolith made of myriad crystalline forms, just fucking beautiful… “Carnal apple, Woman filled, Burning moon… nothing but light in the dark.”

Neruda, patron saint of fallen paragons, the anathematization of consumption is to not know what it is like to not know if I am her or I. Unified, two bodies ruined by a single sweetness, slipping through the narrow channels of blood, one into the other. Instinctually remembering the wholeness of existence, before the blades of Zeus.

Didn’t she know what she was doing? Wearing that shroud, she had to have known. That fucking abyssal shroud, crafted of smoke, shadows, silk, soul, and secrets.

It was the same smiling obscurity she wore the night he boiled and erupted. The night that the ache is his parodic soul flowed over the brim of the intellectual’s tiddle-cup called reason. The night he came to know her hermetically, in the esoteric fashion of arcane baseness. The night he took the naivety of her Aphroditic wound and speared it with the full brutality of his aching soul. Inch by inundated inch he cyclically corrupted the immaculate, until he filled her belly with the salted seas of his ancestry.

Countless times, in the true parodic form of the eternal return, of the rise and fall of the sun, he took her that night. Soul met soul, will imposed over will, flame both thrived and died within the rise and fall of tides. Her trembling nymphette form entombed by the power of his animalistic want, nay, the throbbing pain of his primal need. Her tight wound clung to and sucked away at the very essence of his being, his nature, his knowing. She whimpered, cryed, scratched, begged and bit and the veraciousness of his relentless rutting. She moaned, he growled, as they writhed on the floor in beautiful, blasphemous otherness, familial crimes that would make even Crowley blush like an innocent rose.

It had been months since he had known her biblically, and he had, until this point, managed to maintain the composure of civilized men. Thoughts of that night, drove him to carnal nights with his wife, but turned away, just so he could excise those particular demons.
And now here she was, spread out as she was before. That damned shroud wrapped around her nubile mounds with tips of puffed pink, the softness of her stomach exposed, and her wanting wound laid bare, she hadn’t even bothered with coverage.

Her wound laid bare, to lick, to suck, to feel, to be, to become, a gateway to otherness. His soul was undone, two became one, writhing in beautiful, blasphemous otherness on the floor, and as she whimper-whispered his name into the crisp night air,